Lately, you can’t scroll through social media without seeing it: a big, well-funded advocacy organisation posting a fluffy profile of someone who “works with” criminalised people. These posts always follow the same tired formula: a blurb about what the staff member does, a quote about why they joined the profession — cue the obligatory “I just want to help people” line — and a cute little personal touch, like their favourite hobby. It’s a glossy, well-lit attempt to humanise the worker, as if to prove they really are mortals, not the angels that you could understandably mistake them for.
But here’s the thing: these posts are not written for us — the criminalised, the marginalised, the people they claim to serve. They are written for each other. For funders. For politicians. For other middle-class audiences who can be comforted that the “good work” is being done by relatable, hobby-having professionals — as opposed to the “bad” people they work with, who are rendered as little more than “problems” to be managed, never as people to be believed, trusted, or celebrated.
This cycle of feel-good storytelling isn’t just about visibility — it’s about propping up the welfare industry. It helps keep money flowing to organisations that centre staff over service, optics over outcomes. It keeps the sector stable, safe, and comfortable for those within it — but not for those most harmed by the systems they claim to challenge.
When did it stop being about transformation? When did it become enough to simply be seen to care, without being asked whether your care is wanted, or whether your presence is doing harm? None of these organisations ask us, the criminalised people, the simple but vital questions: Is this worker someone you trust? Is this organisation one you would choose, if you could? They post as if the endorsement of the organisation is endorsement enough — without ever checking whether the people they claim to champion would agree.
It’s worse than just self-congratulation. It’s a form of propaganda. It’s advertising, pure and simple — a way of selling themselves as righteous, compassionate, fund-worthy. And often, the personal touches they highlight are stark reminders of the chasm between workers and the people they work on. While workers list expensive hobbies or talk about overseas holidays, many of the people they claim to serve are struggling to afford a safe place to sleep, to see their kids, to survive another week. We don’t begrudge anyone their hobbies. But the question remains: who are these posts for?
Because if they were for us, if they were for criminalised people, the content would be different. It would be real. It would be raw. It would be accountable. It would lift up the voices of those most affected, not polish the image of those employed to ‘help’ us.
And here’s the kicker — these big organisations rarely, if ever, celebrate the work of groups led by formerly incarcerated people. They don’t amplify us, they don’t come to us for advice, and they certainly don’t ask us to train their staff. They’ll fund consultants before they fund direct expertise. They’ll uplift white-collar “changemakers” before acknowledging the leadership already alive in our communities. It’s not just exclusion — it’s erasure.
We know what this is really about: bragging rights. It’s about showcasing loyalty to a social justice aesthetic — without the discomfort of real self-reflection, real accountability, or real structural change.
Some people will argue that a little showing-off is necessary to secure funding. Maybe. But when the need for attention outweighs the need for transformation, the whole project loses its soul. And criminalised people — already treated as invisible, voiceless, expendable — are once again used as backdrops for someone else’s career, someone else’s feel-good story.
We deserve better. Not better advertising. Better action. Better accountability. Better organisations — the ones that don’t just work on us, but with us, alongside us, and, most importantly, listen to us.
Tabitha Lean and Debbie Kilroy.
